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Erica and Boyd run and run and run. It’s a reprieve, a game, there was never any hope. The Alphas come crashing down on them just as they reach the edge of the woods. It’s excruciating, cruel and they don’t deserve any of it. Boyd finds the strength to kiss Erica’s unresponsive lips before his spine is ripped out of him.
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Jackson jumps and falls. He breaks his neck just wrong enough for it to hurt and heal, and hurt and heal, and hurt and heal until it doesn’t. There is a reason fate didn't want him to be a werewolf.
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Peter gasps, trips, and never gets up. Derek finds him a couple of days later, out in the woods. His body is falling apart, skin previously healed and whole now darkened, flaky, giving off a whiff of a fire long smothered. Magic only works so long.
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Isaac is shot. Wolfsbane spreads down from his shoulder to his heart in just enough time for him to look into Chris Argent’s wide and terrified eyes. Friendly fire is a big risk in a war, lost bullets happen. At least he knows someone will be sorry for what happened to him. It doesn’t ease the pain, but it brings him just enough peace of mind to not be too scared.
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Scott tries to be a hero and loses. It isn’t his fault, not exactly. He couldn’t have predicted the demon in human form hiding among the wolves. They catch him, take him with them. They keep him for months, refusing to let him die, bringing him to the very edge of death and letting him heal just in time, the way only other werewolves would know. Then, suddenly, they get bored. His torso is left hanging from a tree in front of his mother’s house. The other half of his body is never found.
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Allison is eaten. She comes after them, after Scott’s death. She’s delirious, mad with grief. Her entire arsenal is no use without a mind to use it. She marches right into their den and takes four of them with her before the Alpha pounces and rips her head off. They feast for days.
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Lydia is taken. Immunity is a rare, highly sought-after gift. She disappears on a beautiful starry night, just six miles out of Beacon Hills. The police finds her car on the side of the road the following morning. No blood, no sign of struggle, all of Lydia’s belongings exactly where they should be, but no trace of her. The case stays open for ten years with no new element to add to it.
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Stiles, for all his wit and comic timing, doesn’t have time for a last thought. His jeep crashes right into a truck that missed a red light. There’s nothing supernatural about it. No werewolves, no kanima, no magic. Metal pipes burst through his windshield and into his chest and face, crushing his fragile human body. The remains are not enough to identify him, but everyone knows who the familiar blue Jeep belongs to.
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Derek, in a fit of irony, outlives them all. The Alpha pack doesn’t get him, magic has no use for him, his body is too strong for any kind of bullet to kill him anymore, his fury decimates the pack that killed Scott and Allison in a gritty, horrible fight he has absolutely no memory of, and fate… Well, fate, as always, seems to enjoy torturing him, offering him peace at last when he doesn’t want it anymore.
It’s been fifteen years since Stiles’ funeral and Derek is tired. He is old, so old he probably wouldn’t even be able to shift back to his human form if he tried. His full alpha form, formerly glorious and terrifying, is starting to blur around the edge. His teeth and claws are blunt, his fur grey and filthy. He looks like a miserable old dog; weak, skinny legs and pride long gone.
The woods don’t smell like home anymore, haven’t for a while. Derek’s had enough, he just wants to stop and be done with it. The moon is up and full and beautiful. When Derek howls it sounds empty and sad, echoes faintly like the lonely song of a ghost. He sniffs out the place he buried Peter all those years ago and lies on the fresh, cool earth. He rests his heavy head on the ground, closes his eyes, and hopes.
Four days later, two kids stumble upon his cold, rigid body.
Startled, one of them drops his inhaler.