Samandriel puts his wings back out of non-supernatural view again if only to keep it a little less obvious when he fidgets with them. He doesn't need anyone picking up all his new tells of discomfort in one sitting.
"A seraph to be accurate, and more specific, the angel of imagination and," he clears his throat, "fertility." Which, he supposes go hand in hand if you think about it. Fertile mind, fertile body. Samandriel prefers not to. The imagination bit makes sense, particularly for the human he had been before all of this. Fertility feels odd, intellectually, to him. The whole of his experience with any kind of sexual interest for anyone has been with other men and as far as vocabulary goes, fertility isn't even accurate no matter how people use it and-
Oh. He lost himself on his mental tangents again.
"I don't think I really want to be," he confesses. He can tell that to Hannibal. He can't tell it to Lucifer or Castiel. "I've been told that it's the least surprising thing ever, but that doesn't mean I want it or that having this duality of both being a teenager and being from The Beginning doesn't give me a headache trying to...to do things like care about high school or college. Why would any of that matter when I might very well have a literal eternity stretching out in front of me? Or, if things continue like this and I become fully what I am in the dreams, why do the laws of physics or thermo-dynamics even matter when I'll have the power to shape reality as I see fit in some areas?"
Not all, just some. Many. He is no archangel to create full pocket universes, but that means not a lot when you're speaking with an angel who can imagine such things into existence that you might as well believe you've moved worlds.