”Kiss my ass, you sanctimonious bastard.” (Sam, probably)
The Scarecrow rears back and rips off his mutilated burlap mask.
“Oh, heh … .! Hum. ‘Sanctimonious’? Me? I must say, that’s a new one. Most people in my profession don’t consider my experiments orthodox, or ethical, enough to warrant an arrogant moral high ground.”
His movements are a strange mixture of agitation and languor. His pupils are dilated, as though with terror, or arousal, or a toxic cocktail of illicit substances.
“But perhaps you refer to my respect for intellectual rigor. In any case, Mr. Winchester … .”
He produces an unmarked aerosol canister.
“I’ve always wondered how a fellow former lab rat might respond to the highest concentration of my toxin, so I guess I’ll spare you the embarrassment of poor word choice by deep frying your brain altogether.”