Chapter Text
"Coming straight out of Polish folklore is the Upior...a vampire distinguished by its fierce blood lust. And we mean fierce. In some lore, they're said to sleep and bathe in the blood of their victims. Aside from their bloodlust, the most notable feature of the Upior is their long, barbed tongue, which they use to spear the flesh of their victims and lap up their blood." -A Touch of Strange
Szczepan Stilinski was born in the year 1009 A.D.
He was seventeen years old, when he committed suicide by throwing himself off a cliff in the year 1026 A.D.
He woke up three days later.
It was ironic, really. He'd committed suicide after his wife had died while giving birth to their stillborn child. He was the reason for that child existing. He was the reason for her death. For both their deaths. Seeing nothing but a monstrous creature inside of his own heart, he'd tried to end his own life to be with them again. Only to wake up inside of his own coffin, drenched in the blood of his slaughtered mother and father. Sharp twisted fangs where his human teeth had once been. Eyes as red as the blood that dripped from his once broken body. His long, black, barbed tongue protruding through his lips. Skin as gray as the corpse he still was. Slowly at first, then all at once...the Upior began to scream.
Monstrosity, you see, is relative.
-X-
The small family was buried at the foot of a nearby hill.
His wife, Darija was buried while still in her blood-stained dress from the delivery of their stillborn son, Janek. The infant had no name at his birth, so no name marked the tiny dark stone that lay above the minuscule corpse, but had he lived...they would've called him Janek. As it was, Darija's headstone was not much bigger than their lost baby's. It held only her name. For back then, the years were not counted as they are now, but simply felt by the passing of seasons. Szczepan's headstone lay beside his wife's, the marker of their first and only child's resting place held between them, like a whisper. He left what would become Poland soon after his reawakening as an Upior, and didn't visit the graves again. Not even his parents, laying together in a plot on the other side of the village. A few centuries later, he looked the coordinates up on Google Maps, only to find that the three little graves had been covered up by the parking-lot of a strip mall. Yes, a strip mall. The Upior slowly exited his search screen and walked out of the small town library he'd researched it in. Before promptly puking in a gutter nearby.
He never stayed in one place for too long, maybe a year or two.
His thirst was too strong for that. Vampires weren't exactly pillars of self-control, but Upiors were particularly bad at it. There was no drinking 'a little' for an Upior. The moment a drop of blood touched their lips, they would drain the owner dry without a second thought. They needed at least five liters of blood a week to survive. And could only sleep when drenched in blood. So yeah. That was kind of a problem. It was why he tended to avoid human relations and humans entirely...when he wasn't feeding, of course.
But he always made a point to follow the Stilinski family line. His Uncle's sons had sons and then they had sons and then...well you get the picture. Anyway, the Stilinski name lived on. That was how the Upior found himself in a tiny California town called 'Beacon Hills', where a great-great-great-great cousin of his had just become Sheriff. Usually he would just lurk around in the shadows for a few weeks, make sure his descendent was doing okay, feed a few times, and then he would be off. But for some reason, this time...he stayed.
It wasn't just because Sheriff John Stilinski was struggling, mind you. For despite having lost his wife and eleven year old daughter several years prior, he was still doing a rather poor job of keeping his head above water. No. It wasn't just because he was the last of the Stilinski family line. Or because the tragedies surrounding him were so similar to the Upior's own. It was all that...and the wolves. There hadn't been normal wolves in California for at least five decades. Those weren't the wolves that had Szczepan worried for John's safety. It was the werewolf scent that clung to the town like a curtain of musk.
It made the Upior's skin crawl.
So he broke his own cardinal rule. He made contact with the descendent he was trying to protect. But in his defense, John had puked up stale whiskey on his scuffed shoes. So Szczepan was kind of obligated to do something about it.
He'd been lurking in the shadows like usual, when he saw the stumbling silhouette of a man, holding a sloshing half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. The street was dark and empty except for the both of them. On an ordinary night, said stumbling man would've been the Upior's next meal. But Szczepan had just eaten the night before, so instead of being appetizing, the drunk man was just annoying. Until he saw the man's face. Then he was both annoyed and concerned, and he hated it. Sheriff John Stilinski looked three sheets to the wind and greener than the grass below his boots. Which wasn't aided by the fact that he kept taking swigs from the bottle clutched in his fist. The Upior just growled deep in his throat and marched out of his cover of shadows to rest his hand on the Sheriff's shoulder and turn the older man around roughly.
Only for the man in question to hurl.
All over the Upior's shoes.
Great. Just fucking fantastic.
But Szczepan didn't have time to mourn over the scuffed converse shoes that had survived a whole five years of travel in Europe, instead he quickly wrapped an arm around the Sheriff's waist to make sure the man didn't collapse in his own sick. Because unfortunately, he knew first hand just how disgusting that was. The creature of the night was grumbling to himself as he heaved the man upwards with a strength he shouldn't have had, and set him on his feet once more. Before swiftly taking the older man by the elbow and dragging him towards where he knew the Stilinski residence to be. John didn't argue. In fact, he was barely conscious.
The Upior had been in such a situation too many times to count. But this time it was different, this time it was his own descendent and there was no bloodlust alight in his eyes. Still, the feeling of hot breath near his ear...of a pulse beating beneath his hand. Those were too familiar. They made him think of other things, of other years and other places.
The first time after his parents, he drained a farmer and his wife. They screamed and struggled, but he didn't care. His mouth full of dagger-like teeth made short work of ripping them apart. Blood spurted everywhere. He saw red and he relished in it. Control? Ha. It wasn't even a word in his vocabulary. All he knew was the burn. All he knew was the hunger. And how to sate it. In the coming years, there was a banker walking home late at night. A prostitute crying in an alley. A rapist who was stalking a teenage girl. A little boy in the wrong place at the wrong time. A socialite too drunk to stand. He ripped them apart. Drank them dry without a second's hesitation. It was only later that he felt the sick pull in the pit of his belly. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. He had hoped that after so many kills, it would eventually get easier. But it never did.
Szczepan sighed as he practically carried his descendent inside the man's own house. A house that smelled strongly of booze and empty takeout cartons. Wonderful. It was a veritable wonderland of stale whiskey and man-tears. How did this man make Sheriff again? When he looked like he couldn't get through one night without drinking himself into a stupor? Said Sheriff moaned in the Upior's arms and shifted slightly so his face was pressed uncomfortably into the teenager's shoulder.
"Hey Sheriff, you waking up buddy?"
The only response to the Upior's question was a sharp smell that made him wrinkle his nose. And it only took one look at the damp stain on the man's crotch to see where the smell had come from.
"And you just pissed yourself, fantastic. Come on, Johnny Boy, we're making a bathroom detour."
Szczepan basically dragged the older man into the bathroom and gently sat him on the toilet seat. As he leaned over to turn on the bathwater, he grimaced. He really wasn't looking forward to getting all up and personal with this dude's junk. But if he didn't help him...who would? Stupid self-righteous guiltiness. With deft hands, the Upior had the man's pants unbuttoned and quickly shimmied them off and tossed them to the floor, all within mere moments. It only took a few more to have the shirt and badge off as well. Then with gentle hands, he was lowering the barely consciousness man into the lukewarm bath water. Waiting until the guy's private parts were submerged, before removing his boxers.
Then he popped open a two-in-one shampoo and conditioner bottle, lathered up his hands and began to scrub the Sheriff's scalp. The physically older man sighed in something akin to contentment and leaned into the dull warmth that Szczepan provided. It took all the strength the Upior had not to burst out laughing at the scene they portrayed. Clearly, had the Sheriff been in his right mind, he wouldn't have taken so kindly to a strange guy shampooing his hair... especially when said Sheriff was in the nude. Let alone be virtually cuddling with him inside the bathtub.
Luckily, the bath was nearly over and Szczepan stood up again to find some clothes for the Sheriff to put on. He couldn't exactly go to bed starkers. He might catch a chill. In the end, the creature of the night dug up a hoodie and a pair of gray sweatpants. Grabbing the first pair of boxers he saw as well. He could have a mental breakdown later about the fact that a supposedly terrifying creature of children's nightmares was worried about a human guy catching a chill. Unfortunately, after lifting his charge out of the bathtub, Szczepan discovered that dressing a practically comatose person was easier said than done.
After several failed attempts at putting on the hoodie, arms ending up in the same hole and whatnot, Szczepan decided to forgo the hoodie and that if John got chilled it was his own fucking fault for drinking himself sick. And so what if Szczepan would come into his room every few hours with a new blanket? It wasn't like he cared or anything.
Once John was safely tucked into his bed, asleep or perhaps just unconscious, the Upior crept downstairs to get a glass of water and put it on the older man's bedside. For the head-splitting hangover he would most likely wake up with. And if the Sheriff's entire liquor supply ended up in the trash can under unexplained circumstances...well, sometimes miracles happen.
-X-
John Stilinski woke up with a supernova in his head.
He just groaned and pressed his head farther into the soft thing he was lying on. Wait...soft? Had he collapsed onto his own bed? It wasn't the first time he'd woken up with a hangover that made him feel like he'd been hit by a semi. And all of began with him waking up in puddle of piss, sweat and spilt whiskey. What the hell was going on? Had someone led him home? Whenever he tried to remember what had happened the night before, all he could remember was a pair of soft hands and a soothing voice. Huh? Someone had led him home then. Ugh. Well, that was humiliating. Especially after he'd just become Sheriff. Great, now he was getting fired for sure. Couldn't life just cut him some slack already?
He rolled over onto his back, throwing an arm over his face and preparing his body to stand up. He sucked in a strained breath, groaning bodily as he did so; he was pretty sure he was going to throw up a kidney or something. Unfortunately there was nothing in his stomach for his body to reject. Of course, the fact that he wasn't dry heaving in a puddle of pain and all around sickness made the chance of fatal alcohol poisoning rather low. So that was a plus. God, how could he have let himself get this low? What would Claudia think if she saw him now? What would his daughter think, his little Genium?
The Sheriff lurched to his feet and would've promptly collapsed right then and there, if it hadn't been for his rather unsullied reflexes. He managed to snag the corner of a nearby table and forced his legs not to buckle underneath his weight again. Before staggering out of his room and down the stairs, constantly using the wall for support. He really had to stop the drink-till-you-pass-out thing. But first things first, aspirin for his head and something substantial in his stomach. He could get both things from the kitchen, so that was where he ambled.
The first thing he realized was that the contents of his entire liquor stash had been thrown away in an overfilled trash can.
The second thing he realized was that there was a teenager sitting cross-legged on his kitchen counter, eating handfuls of Lucky Charms cereal.
Said teenager was dressed in clothes that looked like they'd seen better days. A red hoodie, a pair of dirty jeans, and nothing but mismatched socks on his feet. The teenager himself looked rather worse for wear as well. There were deep-set shadows around his eyes that made him look like a raccoon, and the entirety of his skin was a sickly pale color only made more shocking by the spiky dark hair on his head. But once he caught sight of John, he grinned widely and actually waved.
"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty! Or should I call you Passed-Out-Drunk Beauty?"
"Who are...?"
"Me? I'm the idiot who dragged you home and gave you a bubble-bath."
"I...I see. And you stayed for...reimbursement?"
The teen's brow furrowed and he paused in what seemed like confusion as he mouthed the word to himself. Then his eyes widened in something akin to horror. "You think I wanna get paid for getting all up and personal with your junk? What do I look like to you? A hooker?!" He sounded increasing offended and John, hungover as he was, was still quick to apologize.
"No! No! I just...why would you help me?"
"Well, you puked on my shoes and then pissed yourself. I felt kind of bad."
John groaned, something that had nothing to do with his hangover or pounding headache. But the teen just smiled knowingly and hopped off the counter to pass the Sheriff a steamy cup of coffee. Something the older man was nursing almost instantly. The teen was also drinking a cinnamon-smelling cup himself. When suddenly, John's blood ran cold.
"How...How did you know where I lived?"
Suddenly the boy didn't look so sick and frail looking. There was something in those eyes, something feral...almost animalistic. And the knowing smile on the teenager's lips turned from endearing to sinister. Something to be afraid of. He looked so alert, so wide-eyed...so hungry. There was something very very wrong about the teen in front of him. And it wasn't just the ratty clothes or the look in his eyes.
"I've been looking after you, John. But before you call the station and lock me up for being a stalker...just hear me out, okay?"
Against the better part of his judgement, Sheriff John Stilinski nodded.
"Now...what do you know about vampires?"