Disclaimer: See Chapter One

A/N: Holy Cow. That was a finale, huh? I won't say anything else just in case there are virgin ears, but WOW. And that's why this show owns me. MAZ101, thanks for your "Er's…" She read this one twice, folks. It's because of her that it made it to this point. Any mistakes from her hands back to mine… well, I'll take the blame.

Chapter Six: Brass Monkey

March, 2009

He couldn't get the damn mud off his boots no matter how hard he tried.

Dean watched as Sam took his boots off outside the door of the bar and walked in with only his socks on, even though they were wet from the rain on the stairs. It only took two steps for them to get filthy underneath but he didn't seem to mind. Sam walked straight up to the counter and hoisted himself on a stool.

"Beer," he ordered in a raw voice. Jeff immediately obliged.

Dean barely raised an eyebrow at Sam, as he followed in with his own rain-soaked socks. He could feel his face pull down in a frown and tried to ignore the killer headache that was throbbing between his temples.

Sam clinked on his bottle to Jeff and a second beer was being popped open and slid across the counter top. For a quick second, Dean could have kissed them both.

"Fucking mud," he grumbled as he sat down next to Sam and wrapped his lips around the mouth of the bottle. He felt the room sway as his head tipped back, letting the cool liquid drain down his throat. "Damn," Dean breathed, allowing a moment to let the large drink settle. "Tastes good."

A clean white towel was being offered to him. An older hand was holding it and Dean took it without saying a word and it was released with only a breath exchanged. Jeff was staring at the fresh blood still running tracks down the side of Dean's face and he started to open his mouth –

"When the hell did it get so cold out there?" Dean threw a chink into Jeff's chain of thought. "It was fifty degrees yesterday and now it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey."

Jeff traded impotent looks with Sam. There were times when words were useless and actions spoke louder. Jeff tied a handful of ice into a makeshift cold pack and handed it across the bar.

The ice felt cool, like the beer and was almost as soothing. Dean closed his eyes, giving his vision a break from seeing his world tilting. The colors of the bottles were starting to spin together and Jeff was becoming Jeffs but if he just shut his eyes for a little bit – just to rest – he'd be okay.

Sam was bumping his elbow. Dean's eyes blinked open, his right hand keeping the towel pressed to his temple. He glanced over to see that what had started as a small slant had turned into a full on lean against his brother.

He straightened up right away and refused to make eye contact. He knew Sam could see it. There was no way for Dean to hide the fact that he wasn't right but for now he didn't need to be right. He needed to be strong or bigger or smarter or, Jesus, he just needed to be needed again.

"Hey, boys." A familiar voice came from behind them. Big Ben waddled his way up to the bar and sucked his gut around the small gap to the other side, where Jeff stood, waiting. "Gotta make that opening bigger." He rubbed his tummy and lifted droopy-lidded eyes to the brothers. "Well?"

"Well," Dean started, putting his half-empty beer down after only his second drink, "your ghost problem is history."

Ben and Jeff shared a surprised, incredulous look.

"That so?" Ben asked.

Dean bobbed his head. "Yep."

They all waited on the other to say something, to go into more details, to reassure, but no one was talking. Just the music in the background and a small Poker game of three in the corner behind the pool table. Draw or Stud. Too clustered to tell.

"You guys…" Jeff began, "are okay?"

Twin heads nodded back. "Who? Us?" Dean asked, his palm hitting the counter a little exaggerated. "We're great."

The Timmons brothers' eyes narrowed even more. Dean felt the uncertainty in the glares.

Sam cleared his throat. "Well, there was a close call or two."

"Yeah," Dean waved a casual hand, "but nothing we couldn't handle." He flashed a smile and felt like he might get sick again.

"All in one piece." Sam finished, plastering his own ill-fitting smile on.

"So," Ben's eyes swung to each of them as he flipped over a shot glass and poured himself a swig of a cheaper Scotch. "You boys are good?"

Their smiles couldn't have looked more phony if they'd been assembled out of wax, but they stayed stuck on their faces and they both nodded. "Yeah," they answered off key, offering a quick glance at each other and back to Ben.

Dean could tell he wasn't buying it. Still, Ben shrugged and turned over two more shot glasses, letting the Scotch pour more than a mouthful. "Then we got a celebration to drink to."

The noise from they boys in the corner escalated into playful shouts and hollers as one of the men stole the chips out of the middle. Dean took the small glass from Ben and held it up in salute to the card players and slammed it back.

Sam pushed his glass around a few times.

It was getting old pretending not to notice, but the fact that Sam wasn't drinking or eating much of anything lately was riding on Dean's nerves. It was on the tip of his tongue to call him on it. Tell him to grow up and stop playing cloak and dagger; to spill it, but he bit it back. Sam had told him how he had spent his summer vacation and Dean had listened. Dean had believed him. Dean had tried to understand. He even tried to be civil to Ruby. He didn't know at the time that it was only part of what had happened. He didn't know there was a double-edged sword at the end of the riddle and that Dean wasn't in on the joke.

So he smiled through it and acted like he didn't notice. Sam was so busy telling lies and keeping facts away from Dean that he didn't notice they were starting to surface on the outside. So Dean would wait. No matter how much Sam bent it, twisted it, and abused it, he would never be able to change the truth. And Dean knew it would all be revealed. He just had to be patient. Of course, just because he had to be patient didn't mean he had to be quiet.

There was a roar from the corner again and the card players were on their feet, pointing fingers in accusation. One dark haired man laughed and flashed his hand – a flush, maybe – and the others grouched out a few curse words in Spanish and sat back down.

Dean's eyes followed Jeff as he wandered over, bringing brews and chips. He was handed a wad of bills, which he stuffed in his front pocket without counting.

The flick of a lighter got his attention, though, and the barkeep was mumbling something that Dean hadn't picked up on. Maybe it was the booze, but he grinned back and accepted another shot. Dean's periphery caught Sam lifting his eyebrows as he shot the whisky back. And Sam kept staring.

"What?" Dean turned his head.

A hitch of the shoulders. "Nothin'."

Dean looked away first; Sam's eyes roamed in the opposite direction. But Dean still knew his brother was watching him. So he would have to try and ignore him even more.

Ben was eyeing both boys. His hand came up to his lips and he inhaled nervously. Maybe it was Dean's imagination, but the big guy looked like he didn't believe that they were clear of the ghost activity or that he didn't want to get his hopes up that it was gone. He blew a few cloudy vapors out his nose and quietly poured another round.

Two more shot glasses filled – Sam was obviously sitting this one out – when Dean felt a finger stab into his arm. He looked at Sam and blinked slow, giving his eyes a second to focus.

"Watch it," Sam warned. "You hit your head pretty hard."

Dean budged away a couple of inches, growling under his breath, "Why don't you just mind your own fucking business." Then instantly regretted his words, but didn't offer any apologies. He couldn't. The arch that was cemented between them now was worse than anything Dean had ever remembered. It was worse than after Dad had died. It was worse than finding Sam gone one day. It was worse than having his brother shoot him. It was worse than when Sam had died.

The bottles of booze were swirling again and Dean shook his head hard. No. He chewed on his bottom lip. Sam dying was definitely worse. This was just... unpredictable, inconvenient. Tough. Hard. Brutal. But it wasn't dark. Sam dying was darker than dark. It was death and beyond. It was Hell.

Jeff sidled up next to his brother and flipped his hair out of his face. He held his body close, his arms near his sides and one shoulder pointing to the other. His blue eyes gazed across the bar. They were past old, they were sad. So far away from being a kid that he barely held a memory of what it was like. He released a short sigh. "So, what was the close call? Or two?"

Dean's fingers stilled on the shot glass. He noticed Jeff and Big Ben were leaning nearer. Their intrigued, wrinkled faces waiting for the story, the music willing words in the background. Ben's hand reached for Dean's glass and brought it closer to him.

He felt Sam cringe.

"Hey, guys?" Dean asked, his whole body twitching as the gold liquid poured out. Sam's eye's slid over to his brother. Dean's words were sharp but his lips smacked together. He was there – Dean had hit a fuzzy buzz. He knew should be cutting himself off. "Up on the hill… what's the fence for?"

Everyone was quiet for a few seconds, clinking glasses and drinking fast together. Except Sam. "Well," Ben released a hearty breath, "that's the dividing post."

Dean's eyes ping-ponged from one brother to the other, but Sam's gaze stayed fixed on Ben.

"What is it?" Dean urged.

Big Ben scrubbed a stubby finger across his forehead. "The fence? It's been there for as long as I've lived here. It divides the cemetery. One side is for the residents. The other's for the illegals."

"The illegals?" Sam jumped into the conversation. Geek boy demon hunter finally found something that piqued his interest. "Illegal aliens?"

"Sure." Ben's shoulders jerked up and down.

"And Val was illegal?"

"Sure."

"You mean…" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose momentarily. "You buried Val on one side of the fence and Angel on the other?"

Dean listened as best as he could in his tipsy state. He thought hazily back to the layout of the graveyard. The one side of the post where the stones were sinking and broken strung along the mud, no one to care for them. The other side, newer and proud, more impressive.

Ben didn't seem to see the irony in this. He lifted his graying eyebrows, his green eyes looking icier somehow. "Right."

"Right?" Sam's voice raised an octave. "You don't see how wrong that is?"

Dean pointed his finger, joining in. "And you never married her? Never tried to-."

"Just because you marry a US citizen doesn't make you a citizen," Ben interjected. "Besides, I tried. I proposed, bought her a diamond. But Val wasn't the marrying type. She told me to keep my ring and she'd keep her daddy's name." He sighed and stamped out his cigarette, almost immediately following it with another one. "All the towns around here have been living with Hispanics for years now. They found jobs at the plant, they accustomed real easy to our way of life and, you know, we don't mind 'em. They're our neighbors and our friends. Hell, I fell in love with one-" his voice deepened, projecting farther, "I fell in love with two of them. But back in the day, they didn't have a lot of money. They buried their dead with what they could scrape together and a lot of them were buried in the older part. I don't know when, but the cemetery was… well, divided." He paused and took a long drag. "Besides, Val always said she wanted to be buried next to her baby. She's the one who chose the plot for him and there were only two sides to chose from. She wouldn't have minded being on the other side of the fence."

Dean glanced over at Sam and Sam was looking back. The older brother shook his head. "Grass is always greener on the other side," he muttered. He couldn't help but remember the spirit charging up the hillside. The plea. The way she called out to him, "Honey." Maybe she had been haunting the place because of where she was buried. Because of how she was buried.

Maybe it wasn't the fact that she was illegal. Maybe it was because she was a mother.

Their own mother hadn't been buried, she had burned. But she had a nice marker they could visit if they wanted. They could go, have a picnic with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and share a Coke and a smile with their backs nestled beside Mary Winchester's name.

Of course, Dean would never get out of the car. They'd already tried that Boy Scout adventure and all it got them was some unsaid words and Sam's chance to bury dad's dog tags into the ground.

He watched Sam fidget on the stool for a moment. His brother was lost in thought, placing puzzle pieces of the current hunt together, moving odd shapes around until they fit.

Just a salt and burn, Sammy, let it go.

He wondered if Sam ever came back to where he had buried Dean. Maybe he had visited. Brought flowers or maybe dug something into the dirt afterwards. Maybe that's where his Physical Graffiti cassette had gone. He noticed it had gone missing during the time he was down under. His eyes narrowed at Sam. Maybe his brother had come to visit. Maybe he did dig. And maybe he just kept on digging down through the dirt and rocks of the shallow grave. All the way to the wood casket. Just to take a peek.

Dean looked away. One thing was for sure, he'd never know because he wasn't ever going to ask and Sam would never trust himself to share something so… well, Sam would just never tell.

-0-

August, 1990

She put her Ford Taurus into park and shut the ignition off. She ignored the way her St. Christopher medal jingled with the car keys, almost asking her not to forget them before she exited the car.

But she had no plans of exiting.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a tube of her favorite lipstick, Dirty Bitch Red, and adjusted the rear-view-mirror so she could see. She applied a bit more than she normally would, but her hand was shaking and she wanted to be sure the gloss stuck. She looked back into her purse and released a curse word. She was in such a hurry to leave, she must have forgotten the mascara.

"Mama. What're we doing here?"

Valentina's dark eyes flicked over at her daughter sitting in the passenger seat. She smiled big and grand at the girl, her teeth looking like a phantom in the dark.

Ramona shifted away from the sight.

"What, Conchita? What is it?"

The crickets were chirping noisily outside the passenger side window. It only seemed to aid Valentina into a macabre-calm tempo. She reached a small hand over to her child's face and let her fingers lightly browse her cheeks. Ramona flinched as Val pulled away, her hand sinking back into her purse. She started a low hum – a lullaby – she used to sing to her niños as babies. She needed Ramona to find her balance in the car and Val needed to sweep away her daughters growing anxiety.

The lullaby morphed from hums to tra-la-la's as items were brought out of her bag and placed on the dashboard. A statue of Mary, Mother of God; a picture of their family, minus Uncle Jeff; a gun.

"A dormir, a dormir con tus amargos sueños…"

Ramona's eyes stayed on the gun even though her mother was still pulling things out of her large bag.

"Mama." Her lips quivered and her voice cracked. Too many movies gone south playing across her frightened young face.

Val zipped up her purse and threw it behind her shoulder, into the pitch black of the backseat. She scooted closer to her daughter and placed a skinny finger to her lips. "Shhh. Let me talk."

Ramona's eyes had grown as round as the end of the revolver. Her mother wrapped a firm arm around her and placed the girl's hand on top of her mother's growing belly.

Thump. Thump.

"A dormir, a dormir con dulces pesadillas. A domir, a domir."

Ramona sat quiet while the crickets chirped and her mother sang. The lullaby purposefully falling from her mother's lips in an effort to soothe; her unborn sibling's little kicks adding as a percussion to the melody.

"We have to go, honey." Her mother reached over and started turning the items on the dashboard.

"Go where?"

"Shh," she warned again. "We have to go. See your hermano. We can't stay with Benny no more." Val turned to her daughter and pulled her even closer to her petite body. Her abdomen rolled between them, following up with a series of impressive whumps. "You see, he don' love us no more. He's gonna throw us away-"

"What? How?"

"Shh." She patted Ramona's dark hair with her small hand and pressed her lips close to her daughter's ear. "Benny's going to send Mama away. Back with the doctora. And then, he's going to send you there, too." She closed her eyes and held Ramona for a moment. "So we must go and see Angel."

"But…" Ramona tried, the gun on the dashboard staring directly at her from where she sat. "Angel is dead."

"Oh, honey," Val lightly laughed, her hands gripping Ramona, her nails digging into her young skin. "What's dead isn't really dead. It still lives on. In us. And sometimes to find peace we need to find all the pieces."

She shifted in Val's arms. "But… Benny."

"I told you, Conchita. Benny don' love us no more. He's not part of our puzzle."

The grip Val had on her daughter was tight and she could see the child was finding it hard to breathe. Ramona's chest was rising and falling faster than normal and her eyes… her eyes couldn't stop watching that gun watch her. "Why do you have a gun?" Ramona asked her mother, swallowing hard as Val eased her hold on her a little.

"That is my just in case."

Ramona looked up. Val attempted unsuccessfully to soften her expression but it only seemed to alarm the girl more. "In case of what?"

In the distance, she heard it then. The long whistle of the 10:35 pm freight train. Ramona tried to sit back, but Val readjusted her grip on her. "You remember what I taught you. What's right and what's wrong."

Ramona's face was pressed against her mother's bosom and Val held strong to her. The thump thumps were coming faster, stronger against the thin uterine wall separating them. Ramona took in a breath and frantically cried out, "I think this is wrong."

The clickety-clack of the train's wheels were sounding louder and the whistle blew again in a long howl. Ramona's small hands wedged between their bodies and she tired to push against Val as the train continued around the curve. There would be no way the conductor would see them in time. There would be no screeching of the brakes. There would be no close call.

"Mama."

Val's lips pressed up against her ear, the Bitchy Red lipstick rubbing off on Ramona's lobes. She mouthed words that her daughter was meant to take to her grave. She spoke what was in her heart, what she couldn't say to anyone in the world. She told secrets and truths and when she was empty, she hugged the child close and requested, "Say it again, Conchita."

Ramona released a sob and strangled in a breath. Her body racked with tears and exhaustion. She was trapped and she whispered it over and over, "Mama. Mama. Mama."

She never felt the hit of the train, only the force of the car in motion. She never felt the car crumpling into a mangled mess around her. Never felt the jagged metal of the driver's side door cut off her left leg. She never felt the slam of the Taurus on the rails. Never felt her head smash with it.

She would never know that her mother's body wrapped around hers was the only reason why she survived the accident in the first place.

-0-

March, 2009

"Well, if we really are rid of spirits 'round here," Ben started, eyeing the boys carefully.

Dean twitched an eyebrow. The guy was so cautious. "Dude, she's burned."

"Then I guess…" The man reached up with a grunt to a cabinet high above the bottles of booze and took out a small white box. He turned and grinned at his brother. "Guess I can give Gina this." He sprung the box open and shared the lone content inside with Jeff.

"Seriously?" His brother beamed back. Dimples gracing the corners of his cheeks. Sam couldn't remember ever seeing those before.

Ben turned the box around for the boys to see. A modest, but sweet round diamond caught the dim lights from above, shining back to the set of green eyes across the bar.

Something punched Sam in the gut and he found himself looking away, almost mad at himself for letting something so tiny and sparkly kick him like that. He closed his eyes for a second and took the beer in his hands, pulling hard on the neck and letting the cool blaze blister down his throat and light his stomach on fire.

Crash and burn…

"Wow," Dean was saying. "You sure?"

But Sam could tell by the tone of his brother's voice that he didn't really care. He was just pushing words around, keeping the small talk light and open, looking to share more celebration drinks.

"You bet," Ben continued on, holding up the Scotch in offering as Dean flicked his glass near. ""When you know what you want, you know it, right?"

Dean took the shot glass and held it up again, his eyes twinkling to the older man. Sam knew he had no idea what the guy was talking about. "Right," he bullshitted and down it went.

"I mean, Gina, she's got everything – she's beautiful."

"Yeah?" Dean goaded.

"And she's smart and she's-" the big guy stretched his arms across his tight belly, showing even a larger girth. "She's out to here, you know?" He laughed hard and elbowed his brother. "No, this is good, boys. This is-"

There was a mystical crack to an electric guitar behind them. Distinct. Spiritual. Very much a Latin beat coming from the jukebox.

"What. The. Hell?" Jeff spoke up, his voice hitting each word like it could be his last. He took a step back, his face paling.

Carlos Santana didn't have a problem answering him, plucking his guitar strings, letting the sweat and music pour out of him, entrancing his listeners to move to the music.

Got a black magic woman...

The three men in the corner let out whooping sounds, high five-ing one another, their laughter raising above the music.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Dude, it's just Santana." He grabbed at his seventh or eighth shot and downed it.

Ben's head whipped to the left. "You do this?"

"Hell, no!" Jeff snapped.

Sam alerted, felt the heat in his stomach churn and boil, his blood racing faster, warming his cells. "What is it?" His mouth ticked.

Dean's head rolled, his chin scratching on his shoulder. "Santana. They had an album. Called it Supernatural." He tried a laugh, but it came out like a snort.

Sam was ignoring his half-drunk brother anyway. Instead, he was zoning into his body. It all happened in a tunneled motion, everything he felt, smelled, saw, touched – it was all hypersensitive. The breaths from the Timmons' brothers were faltering, the voices in the corner were jeering. Sam could hear the slap of a card thud on the wood table as it was dealt. He heard Santana's fingers slide up the steel strings of his guitar and slide back down. He heard the unnatural stride behind him, mocking the vulnerability of the tavern. He heard petite footsteps dancing on the dust covered, unsalted wood floor.

His hairs on his arm pricked. He felt his own heart rate slow to a numbing pace thumping against his lungs, decreasing his need for air exchange. His entire body shifted into automatic, following a new pathway. He felt something pull deep inside him and knew Dean's eyes were on him. He knew his brother could sense the change.

I've tried so hard to protect you…

"What's wrong?" Dean asked to anyone who would supply an answer.

"This is Val's favorite," Jeff explained.

I've got a black magic woman/Got me so blind I can't see

"We took it out of the jukebox the year she died."

"Hasn't spun that song for almost twenty years." Big Ben's eyes fell on the brothers, accusingly. "You took care of her, huh?"

Dean and Sam glanced at one another. Sam frowned as he noticed his brother's bloodshot eyes. Dean blinked at him a couple of times as his hand rubbed at his thigh. "We s-salt and burned her."

The music escalated higher, the guitar riffs piercing into the small space.

"All of her?" Jeff barked over the rising music.

Sam looked away. He had climbed back into the gravesite. He had gotten the up close and personal experience with the scorched bones. He had made sure they were rid of Valentina Mondalvo.

He nodded to his brother, a look of steadfast confidence on his face.

"She was toast," Dean nodded his head back at the men, but something in his neck wasn't as positive as it had been when he had walked in the bar.

"What the hell?" A guy from the corner was shouting, his hand gesturing towards the jukebox. "Too loud, Big Guy! Too loud!"

Dean swiveled off the nearly broken stool and swaggered his way to the music. Sam watched him carefully as he approached the jukebox. Dean punched at the clickety white buttons and when that didn't change anything, he slapped the side of the jukebox a couple of times.

The music stuttered, but through the static, Santana found his pace, the sounds echoing off the walls.

"Did you keep anything of Val's?" Sam hollered over his shoulder at the brothers, his voice straining over the noise.

The men in the back were gathering their cards and chips up. The were talking amongst themselves, cupping a hand behind one ear, trying to hear their own words.

Ben and Jeff were shaking their heads back to the younger hunter. "Like what?" they asked in unison and Ben leaned over the counter. "What do you mean?"

Sam tilted in towards the large face and shouted, "Anything that belonged to Val? That came from her body?"

The head started shaking a negative.

"Skin?"

A shake.

"Toe nails? Finger nails?"

He could see a grimace forming on the bartender's face, but his head kept shaking.

"A tooth? Hair?" One of those sometimes would get a response.

His head was still shaking.

Sam took in another breath. He could see Dean out of the corner of his eye, shoving the machine out to look for the cord. "Nothing? Nothing that had part of her? Her blood or-"

But Big Ben's head was shaking. He turned his chin in Sam's direction and just as the music came to a screaming silence he yelled over, "Just Ramona!"

Sam's head angled to the side as the two men retreated from the violation of personal space and he found his jaw was slightly dropped. Just Ramona? Sam swallowed hard. One thing he was positive about during this walk-in-the-park salt and burn was there was no way in hell he could see Ramona.

Strange thing was, the big guy had a point. Just Ramona? She was Val's daughter. Her blood was part of the reason she existed in the first place. Val's actions were the only reason why she existed the way she did now. Just Ramona. How often had he used words like that to people in grief? Telling mourners to look to the children the victim had left behind. As long as they were there, the person was still alive. Through their child's eyes. In spirit. In the soul. Blood to blood.

Ramona was the only one left who carried any part of Valentina's spirit with her.

Dean turned to face the room, cord in his hand. "Well, that was weird."

A loud smack of thunder occurred outside, followed by a crack of lightning, shaking the walls of the small saloon and all seven of the men felt a jolt. The dull lights flickered on and off until the bulbs zinged a dim yellow, the room softly lit against the growing dark of the windows. Each man stayed in their respective spots, waiting in quiet surprise until they heard the pluck, pluck, pluck of the rain increase in speed and intensity on the roof.

Out the large window, Sam caught shadows moving quickly across the muddy street from the clouds above. He watched as grays of light were cast against the first rows of tombs from the big hill.

The air was thick and cool and Sam inhaled a wheezy breath as his eyes raked the darkening room. He knew where everyone was positioned, but it was his brother he was watching. A cloudy mist started to emerge next to Dean, starting low to the ground, but quickly tornadoing its way to a larger form.

Sam scrambled off his stool, reaching back to his waistband for his Glock.

"Get down," he said tersely to their hosts.

The bartenders were bright eyed as they started a slow crouch down under the counter. The Hispanics were scattering in the corner. Sam caught one of them doing the sign of the cross while another was grabbing all the chips.

"Sam?" Dean called over. His breath released in cold fumes around his mouth. His eyes darted across the open bar. Sam yelled at him to get down, the gun held steady in front of him. "Oh, shit," Dean mouthed a second too late as an icy breath brushed by his shoulder.

"Honey." She teased. "Don'. Don' do dat."

-TBC-

Translations: Conchita: Endearment for Val's daughter

Hermano: Brother

Playlist: Black Magic Woman performed by Carlos Santana

A Dormir (To Sleep)

The verse of Val's Lullaby is: To sleep, to sleep with your dreams bitter. To sleep, to sleep with sweet nightmares. To sleep, to sleep.

Brass Monkey performed by Beastie Boys