The funeral was today. A lot of people were there, most of them crying. I don't get why they were crying- I'd never seen half of them before, which means my mother probably hadn't seen them in years. Why would they cry for someone they didn't even know? Just don't get it...

Charlie Eppes pulled at his necktie. He swore to himself that he would never wear one of those things again after high school graduation, but what else should you wear to you mother's funeral? A black T-shirt?

"Here," came Don's voice. "Try this."

He held out a clip-on to his younger brother, who immedietely yanked off his tie and threw it aside, fastening the clip on in place. "Thanks," he told Don, breathing a sigh of relief that his breathing was no longer impaired by a piece of cloth that seemed to want to strangle him.

Don was silent.

It was to be expected. Their mother's body had been taken away two days ago, and all the happiness and a majority of the ability to speak seemed to go with her. How were they supposed to feel? Happy that she was no longer suffering, or sad that she was gone forever? Relieved that it was finally over, or wishing that she could be with them again, even if it was in pain?

He didn't know how his father or brother felt, but Charlie felt guilty. He wasn't there when she died, and he hadn't been there for most of the long road of illness. He had pulled away from her, afraid of being hurt. But the tears he cried for his mother weren't those of pain, like Dad's, but tears of regret. What hadn't he known about her? What was her life like before she was married? What was Grandma like before her face looked like an elephant? Mom would have told him, no doubt about it, but he never asked, and he never listened.

He didn't know which was worse.

The day passed like molassess in the wintertime. It felt like it would never end, but no one's mind was really there. All Charlie could remember of the event in years to come was being squished in between Larry and Alan, a lot of ladies crying, and his ancient Aunt Irene flinging herself on him, sobbing and sympathizing for him.

What he really remembered was the casket, and knowing his mom was in that box, sealed away from the rest of the world...

The evening after the funeral was much more clear. He was in the garage, working on some new equations. It felt scandalous at first- like he was retreating from pain, just like he had done while Margaret was alive, but once the numbers was all he was focusing on, he felt like he had entered a world of consoling oblivion.

"Charlie?"

And x should equal the total- huh?

"Don," said Charlie, dropping his chalk in his surprise. "What are you doing in here?"

"I wanted to talk to you- stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm either about to kill you or this is bad. You look like I'm going to declare war here..."

Charlie shrugged. "It's just that we don't talk much."

"No, we don't." Don collapsed into one of the old chairs in the corner, quickly almost completely hidden by a large cloud of dust. "I remember when Dad found out you converted his garage- when Mom and Dad were away?"

A reluctant grin pulled at Charlie's lips. "You almost destroyed the house, and we had the Winchesters' dog that whole weekend."

"Dog named Houdini," laughed Don. The laughter died quickly, though.

"Why'd you come back, Don?"

He'd made a bad choice for conversation direction. Don frowned and leaned forward in his chair. Finally, he stood and strode over to his little brother. "I made some mistakes, Charlie," said Don softly. "Stuff I never want anybody to find out about. But I'm here in LA now because I care about Mom and Dad. And you. "

Charlie felt warmed by these words, but in the back of his mind, a small voice that was quickly silenced managed to say "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

A/N: The first italicized section will always be Charlie's journal.The rest is essentially what the journal talks about.