Things Found After
When death became final for one brother, completing unfinished business was done by the brother left behind.
It was easy to fake papers. Of course, no one else really was fighting to land jobs like this. If it didn't seem right, too coincidental, they would look away. They always did. Also because they knew they didn't want to be the ones responsible of teaching teenagers how to drive a vehicle.
The little shits didn't care about the beauty of a car, how it purred under the love, the journeys it held under the hood, and the way it traveled with you as a companion, carrying you and all that mattered without protest.
When the last teenager slid into the driver's seat, buckling himself in and adjusting mirrors, the false teacher knew this one wasn't a little shit. Not to the man who would have originally done this teaching himself, much less him. This had been the one who answered correctly to his brief inquisition on the inner workings of a vehicle, shrugging the knowledge off as a knack with cars. The subconscious was powerful and the image the teenager portrayed had the teacher smiling in year old memories.
There was no way he could ask the kid's mother if she had lied seven years ago. Well, he could, but she would hardly be able to answer it.
After the class finished, he felt a pain in his chest as he watched the teenage boy celebrate his passing with his mother. She was polite, thanking him for teaching her son, but a faint puzzlement at him seeming familiar. It was tearing to realize, when he had thought that neither of them would remember him the slightest. And he desperately wished it wasn't him she recalled.
Getting into the car he drove, empty without another presence to define it, he started it up. He took a glance back at the pile of clothes that weren't his, but still stayed in their proper area inside the place he grew up in and called home. Fighting the need to run back, he pulled out of the parking lot and roared down the road.
"He would have appreciated this," a voice suddenly spoke inside the car. Peering over, blue eyes pierced into his before they pulled away. Those eyes looked back to the dash, small scribbled notes tapped across it, things found after.
"He should have been the one to do it. Like he wanted to."
Angry at life and the way things came to be, the temporary driver of the car, for it would never fully be his car, not really, shoved a cassette tape in and twirled the volume up. Classic rock music pounded out of the classic muscle car.
Blue eyes searched him, hurting and wanting. He saw the mouth move and quickly spun the volume farther, not wishing to hear whatever the other had to say to help him heal. He didn't want to heal, to get over it; it was a person and not just any person. Still, he read the lips and that hurt him more than he thought, since the intentions were not to do so.
He looked back to the road, letting the music wash over him, then back to see the other had left. Penitent, the false teacher turned the volume back down to tolerable levels, before pulling the car over. Taking a moment, he plucked off one of the scraps of paper and carefully retaped it on the far side of the dash, signifying it as complete. It was easy to fake the formal papers, no one cared about them. The same was not true about these informal little scraps, each with reminders that person could now never keep. He blinked, staring at the only one he had completed so far.
'Summer of 2015,' it read in his brother's scrawl. 'Keep promise, teach Ben to drive'.
The moment ended. He fisted his hands tight on the steering wheel and bent over it. And Sam began to cry.
"It should have been you Dean! It should have been you! Teaching the kid! You idiot! The kid who doesn't even know who you are! You should have done it! It should have been you teaching him Dean! Damn it Dean! It should have been you! It should have been you! He…he's still a lot like you. Damn it Dean. It should have been you teaching Ben how to drive."