Faith seemed secondary to the act, undertaken in times of great duress by any and all. The thought of divine intervention at the simplest of inconveniences was absurd.
Yet voices were raised in just such application.
‘Please, God - let him notice me.’
'O'God - I hope I get that bonus’
'God, help me. I need that promotion’
Castiel tilted his head, listening to the ebb and flow of humanity far below - tapped into the endless hiss of white noise. Even unto an angel, steeped in the solitude that bespoke his position - prayer seemed…misconstrued.
He pitied the poor fool of a celestial whose role it was to listen and sort through such an addled mess of pointless pleading. So much of it was just plain wrong.
Did they truly believe that God Himself had nothing better to do than grant the whimsical wishes of humanity? Had they forgotten that prayer was an undertaking of devotion? Not for a youth sitting within the confines of an educational facility, focused on the male sitting opposite them.
It had been nothing more than idle curiosity that had tempted him to deviate from his station. There was argument to be made for the tapping of prayers - observation leant heavily upon senses. Audio was as significant as sight was at times.
He did not expect to hear anything of true worth from amidst that grating hum of baser want, did not expect the expanse of his mind to be drawn aside by an errant string of invocation.
The voice of a boy. Young. Wracked with sentiment too great for his age. Entreating unto God for…what?
Salvation? Absolution? Alteration?
No, not at all.
The angel tugged free this thread, lending it his hear so that he might listen to the prayer of youth.
After being clinically dead for sixteen hours, almost losing his mother, the Sheriff, and Mr. Argent, becoming ‘True Alpha’ and sending Deucalion off with his tail between his legs decidedly packless, going back to every day life was kind of…anti-climactic. The truth was, only a handful of people actually knew what had happened, what exactly had taken place, and how close a lot of good people had been to dying. A couple more people knew that werewolves were a thing, but otherwise not much had changed.
They still didn’t know what Lydia was or why she was…whatever she was. Scott didn’t really act any different now that his eyes were red - his pack and chosen him and in that sense, he was still just Scott. As for the ominous promise of a darkness around their heart and the impending doom that might be just over the horizon now that the vacancy sign for supernatural baddies was up in lights – it was one day at a time. They would deal with that when it happened. He refused to live in fear. That wasn’t living. They always managed and he had faith in all of their abilities.
Except for his ability to find anything inspiring to do in the aftermath. Yeah, there was school and he was carefully avoiding the Isaac and Allison thing but he’d been consumed by the werewolf part of his life for so long, he kind of sucked at being a teenager. He went to bed at a reasonable hour. He showered regularly and he did his homework. Depressing, really. Sprawled in his chair in front of his computer desk, he mustered the strength to shoot off a text to Stiles. They hadn’t hung out in like a couple days which really, was far too long.