Author's Note: For fans of my longer fics, don't despair! This is just a sign of my continuing creativity, not the death knell of any of my other stories. I honestly don't know where this story came from, other than a random idea I got when Katy Perry's "Waking Up in Vegas" came up on shuffle on my iPod. I don't know when it takes place, either; assume it's sometime in Season 3, not another "Bela's back from the dead!" fics. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it :) And have fun imagining the kind of night they had - I certainly have hahaha

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and no one - Bela and Dean belong to Eric Kripke; the dialogue belongs to Katy Perry. I just spent some quality time with them.

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"Waking Up in Vegas"
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The sharp-dressed woman and her rather scraggly companion sat hunched on the curb outside the Venetian, startling tourists and making the valets uncomfortable. They all knew that these two were bad for business, in that they were scaring potential customers away, but the woman looked so upstanding and the man looked so…scary. No one wanted to approach them, so they let them be.

Face hidden in her hands under the harsh Nevada sun, Bela slowly shook her head side to side. She couldn't bring herself to look at Dean, but she knew, sooner or later, she'd have to talk to him. "You've got to help me," she murmured, unsure if he'd heard her over the din of traffic on the Strip. Slowly, gently, she raised her head enough to rest only one cheek on her palm and eye Dean, who was practically curled into fetal position on the street beside her. "It's all a blur, last night…" She didn't even know where to start – it had been one hell of an escapade.

Suddenly resolute, she craned her neck, only to immediately withdraw it to the welcome darkness of her clasped hands. "We need a taxi, because you're hungover…" As if it were all his fault. She snatched her purse from the sidewalk beside her, Dean watching her through groggy, bloodshot eyes, then rifled through it for a moment before frowning down into its depths. "…and I'm broke."

The proclamation caught Dean's attention. He still wasn't up to speaking, but he managed to shoot her a truly befuddled look. Bela? Broke? What about the money she liked to boast that she rolled around in every night before bed? With a moan, he dropped his head between his knees to avoid vomiting on the family of four strolling past.

Bela pawed further through her meager possessions, scowling at her own stupidity. "I lost my fake ID," she said, practically a growl; she never left home without at least one form of identification that gave her a name other than Bela Talbot. Dean chuckled, feeling very unforgiving and thoroughly enjoying her dismay, because he felt like his eyes were going to burn out of their sockets – after he expelled the contents of his stomach (and, possibly, a lung) and his skull spontaneously combusted. In response, she glared over at his pitiful frame and jabbed him, unmercifully, in the ribs. "But you lost the motel key."

Dean glanced up, his face frozen halfway between sickness and a scowl, and Bela rolled her eyes and huffily averted her gaze. "Spare me your frickin' dirty looks, now – don't blame me." She watched the traffic whizzing by for a moment, letting her hurried thoughts drown out the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas and letting her initial anger subside. When she, at last, turned back to Dean, she had something of a playful smile on her ill-painted lips. "You want to cash out," she pronounced; he nodded. "And get the hell out of town." Again, a nod of assent; anything was better than being out in this heat. She shook him roughly by the shoulder, grinning when he groaned and then shifting a few inches away when she saw how horrifyingly green he'd become. "Don't be a baby. Remember what you told me."

They'd stumbled upon each other a few days ago – Bela was here in search of a wealthy casino tycoon interested in the occult, and she'd been here for some time, while the Winchesters had rolled into town for a job. She couldn't exactly remember what it was they'd been hunting, but that little detail was hardly relevant now. The night before, Dean had appeared outside her room (terrible, how the one time she'd decided to slum it, she had picked the same no-tell motel as the brothers), sans Sam, and grinned at her. Before she could say a sarcastic word, he'd held up a wad of twenties he'd won from hustling pool and challenged, "Shut up and put your money where your mouth is."

She didn't know exactly why she'd accompanied him out, but now, on this curb, she could only sigh and realize that the past was the past; it couldn't be changed. "That's what you get for waking up in Vegas," she groaned, then pushed herself off the asphalt and stretched. She kicked Dean's work boot with her kitten heel repeatedly, until he snarled and grumbled and half raised his eyes to her face. "Get up and shake the glitter off your clothes – now ," she ordered, sounding much more bossy than she really felt, and she smiled with malicious glee as Dean hurried to double-check that he wasn't actually covered in glitter, as he feared. Bela held out a hand to help Dean to his shaky feet. He grasped her hand, then hesitated – standing up sounded like a lot of work. She gave a snarky grin he didn't see, as he studiously avoided looking upward and into the full glare of the sun, and repeated the line she so liked aloud, "That's what you get for waking up in Vegas."

Stumbling a little, and swaying from one side to the other, Dean allowed Bela to help him over the curb and onto the sidewalk. Together, each unsteady and shaken in their own ways, they joined the fray of marching, sunburned tourists – and, damn, but they looked ridiculous. Amongst the sensibly dressed soccer moms and overweight gambling addicts, Dean looked practically homeless (not to mention that he appeared to have gone on a bender for the last week and a half) and Bela, in a tight black dress that barely covered her thighs and strappy black heels, was assumed to be the prostitute stuck with caring for him after a night of wild excess.

Dean glanced enviously at the passers-by in their sunglasses and suntan lotion, and raised a hand to shade his sore eyes. "Why are these lights so bright?" he moaned, half a complaint and half a plea to make it stop. He hazarded a subtle glance at Bela, who was smirking at him with unabashed amusement, and he glared down at the ground again. The squinting made his eyes feel a little better; her hands holding his upper arm were nice, too, keeping him upright. But he had to do a double-take of her hands, noting a ring on one of her fingers that didn't seem quite to par with her standards. He almost didn't want to know, but he had to ask. "Did we get hitched last night?" There was a half memory clambering to the front of his mind, but it hurt to think too much. All he could come up with was, "…dressed up like Elvis…?"

Dean had certainly drank more than she had, but Bela didn't remember much of the preceding night, either. With trepidation, she followed his gaze to her right hand and quietly appraised the clunky bit of jewelry taking residence on her ring finger. "Why," she demanded to know, disgust and scorn clear in her voice, "am I wearing your class ring?" Dean disentangled himself from Bela and went, flailing, towards a city bench. He plopped himself down on it and, panicking, dug around in his coat for his cell phone, trying to remember how to make it call Sam. It wasn't working out.

Bela appeared at his side and snatched the phone away, just when he felt he was getting it. He forgot his aversion to sunlight long enough to get in a good glare at her. "Don't call your brother," she said civilly, a little snide at the thought that the "great" Dean Winchester needed his baby brother to come save him; Dean had to admit that he saw her point. Bela studied the ring on her finger for another moment, then waved it in his face with a sickly sweet smile on her face. "Because, now, we're partners in crime."

He shoved her hand away with a sneer, dropping his head into his hands again to massage his temples. "Don't be a baby," he growled, and found it within himself to look at her again – well, to peek at her through his fingers, because the direct sunlight was murder on his optical nerves – and spit her own words back in her face. "Remember what you told me."

"Shut up and put your money where your mouth is."

What had possessed her to take the bait? Of course, it had been gratifying to watch him drool when she'd emerged from the room, after a few minutes of preparation, in her current attire. And she had absolutely loved kicking his ass in a few hands of poker. Blackjack hadn't been much fun, because partway through their fifth round, they'd both realized that the other had been counting cards, too. They'd bounced up and down the Strip, until they'd ended up here…

"That's what you get for waking up in Vegas."

There had been a few good moments, too, moments she didn't want to remember too fondly because it made it harder for her to relish the times when they'd been bickering or had nearly come to blows. She'd enjoyed getting drunk with him, not only because she didn't do it often, but because his company was, oddly enough, rather pleasurable. She'd liked hanging on his arm and blowing on the dice in craps at Caesar's Palace, and she stifled a smile at the memory of his wild excitement when she'd hit the jackpot on a slot machine at the Bellagio.

"Get up and shake the glitter off your clothes now."

Yes, that was all they had to do. Dean had to get off this dreadful bench and she had to get herself straightened up, and then they had to shake away the memories (what was left of them, anyway) of the night before and get going on another night like it. They had to win back their tens of thousands – more, possibly; she hadn't been in her right mind when she'd been trying to count it – and find a way back to that lavish high-roller suite they'd partied in at one hotel or other, after cashing in their chips and spending a large amount of the cash on more drinks and new friends.

"That's what you get for waking up in Vegas."

Exactly.

Bela hoisted Dean back to his feet, noting, with pleasure, that he was getting his sea legs back – if gradually – and ignoring his sounds of complaint. "You got me into this information overload," she said, poking his chest twice with one manicured finger. But, though the words sounded like an accusation, Dean glanced up in time to realize that she was smiling. She shrugged. "Situation lost control."

Dean leaned back against the bench with a lazy grin of his own. Beyond the world-ending hangover and his present company, he was enjoying himself. And, to be honest, the headache would pass (as long as he got his hands on some ibuprofen) and he wasn't entirely loathing Bela at the moment. He remarked wryly in reply to her explanations, "Send out an SOS." He grabbed her hand and she helped pull him upright. He didn't look it, but he was ready for whatever this damn city had to throw at them. He slung a friendly arm around her shoulders, wincing when his head throbbed in retaliation, and then he gave a short laugh. "Ha – and get some cash out."

That could be arranged. Bela didn't keep those offshore accounts for nothing. She grinned at him. "We're going to tear up the town," she assured him, laughter in her eyes and the taste of good vodka rising back to her tongue. They began to walk down the street, swaying like the drunken buffoons they were, and Dean nearly pitched over. If not for Bela's quick reflexes, they would have both hit the pavement. A hand on his chest and the other around his waist, Bela resettled Dean on his feet and made sure he was steady. "No," she chided, a mischievous smile playing on her lips, "don't be a baby."

Dean blinked a few times, tightening his hold on her neck as he took a few more experimental steps. His stomach roiled; his vision swam. He hadn't felt better in years. "Remember what you told me," he charged, pointing at her heart. She crossed it, holding up a hand to swear that they would have a good time. She had a feeling that phrase would haunt her until the end of her days.

They strolled off down the Strip together, Bela resting her free hand on the one Dean had draped over her shoulder, as Dean purposefully stumbled into her a few times. They didn't do much talking, but they laughed all the way to the bank. And when night fell, presenting all the same mistakes to be made all over again, they leapt at the chance without hesitation. Dean had been chewing on Advil all day and swore not to have a drink; Bela promised herself that she wouldn't use anymore of her emergency fund to gamble. They both knew they were making promises they couldn't keep. And when they looked at each other, eyes wild and a little frenzied, movements a little ungraceful from one too many Cosmos, pressed up against each other at the Roulette table or in the privacy of that same high-roller suite, counting their winnings and tossing money into the air in their drunken stupors, they knew that they didn't mind breaking a few of those promises for a good time.

That's what you get for waking up in Vegas.

They had the marriage annulled – well, once they had sobered up and checked with City Hall to make sure such a union had actually come to pass. Somewhere alone their travels, they'd managed to pick up a few helpful people to act as witnesses and had then promptly forgotten about and lost their marriage certificate. It didn't matter; they both knew it had happened and neither wanted to keep it that way. Marriage wasn't their style.

But he let her keep the ring.