Helen Magnus. Doctor. That doesn't sound like Naomi, and angels aren't particularly big on subterfuge, and oh my god why is he trying to ascribe logic to any of this. He shakes his head, trying to reassert some level of concentration in a maneuver that isn't really successful in doing any such thing.

"You're - you're not, aren't you?" He peers at her for a minute, unfocused and evaluative. "That's weird. I guess not the weirdest. I dunno. I've seen weirder." Pause. "Probably."

He flexes one of his hands experimentally, testing the distance between himself and reality, himself and his distal appendages, himself and his nervous system. There's too much of a sensation of detachment, which Sam's interpreting as a bad sign.

"I, uh, don't know how much help a doctor'll be with this," he admits in a tone attempting for flippancy.