He's sitting on a fold up chair in the cold, long green scarf wound twice around his neck. There is a chess set on the battered camping table in front of him, and he's frowning at it, face screwed up in concentration.
Eventually, he prods the white knight forward, taking a black pawn with it before he resumes his previous position of concentration. When a shadow falls across his board, the old man looks upward, squinting a little in the weak sunlight.
A smile creases his face.

'Come to play?' he asks.

'It's too cold to play,' the first man says. His hair - dark blonde - is squashed flat beneath his beanie, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Despite the weariness evident in his lean frame, he holds himself upright, shoulders squared. The old man doesn't seem to notice the second man until he moves forward. If the first man looks tired, the second looks utterly exhausted. His eyes are still vigilant, sharp gaze taking in every movement the old man makes.

'You play chess often?' he questions, mild puzzlement in his tone.

The old man shrugs.
'It passes the time. I've got time for another game, if you're interested.'

A slow shake of the head is his answer, a question following.

'You always play in cemeteries?'

The old man laughs. The sound is rich, vibrant and happy, and echoes over the desolate cemetery like water after a drought. It changes his features somehow, makes them seem younger, more rounded, less aged than he looks. When the sound dies away, the wind dies along with it.

'Look around you, boy. It's quieter here than anywhere else. Gives me time to think, if you know what I mean. I like the peace.'

A bark of laughter: the humor doesn't reach the first man's eyes at all.
'Peace? In a graveyard? You're crazy.'

The old man grins. 'I get that a lot,' he says agreeably. 'You could stay a while, Dean.'

Dean tenses, automatically reaches out to push his brother behind him. 'Who the hell are you? While we're at it, why don't you tell us what you think you're doing on a hellmouth?'

The old man sighs softly. 'You already know me, Dean,' he says gently. 'I must say, I'm pleased with the way you've both turned out. It's been a long, difficult road, hasn't it, Sam?'

Sam startles visibly. 'Wait, are you - '

'Yes, Sam. I Am.'

Now just as startled as Sam is, Dean shuffles his feet over the dead grass. His face is a conflict of emotions, a myriad of thoughts running through his head. Eventually, he settles on one question, one word.

'Why?'

'Why am I here? Why did I want to meet you?'

'Both,' Dean says. His voice is just as dazed as his eyes are.

'I wanted to greet my children,' the old man tells them, adjusting his scarf. 'I have waited for you both for such a long time, and I'm so glad you're finally here. I'm so proud of you both, and I love you. Your deeds have not - and will not go unforgotten.'

Sam is crying and trying to hide it. 'You - you mean that?' he chokes out.

The old man gets to his feet. 'Of course I do, Sam. You're my children, my flock. Your sins - whatever they may be - are forgiven. The deed is done, you've earned your peace, and when your time comes, I will be waiting to bring you home with open arms.'

The old man reaches out and lays his hand on Dean's forehead, and then on Sam's. His skin is warm, palm soft and touch tender. It's a benediction.

'Be well, Winchesters,' he says softly. 'Be blessed.'

The old man regards them both fondly for a moment, and then gathers up the chessboard. 'I'll have to find another opponent,' he murmurs, and walks away.

The sound of singing - a heavenly choir - hangs in the air over the graveyard long after the old man has gone.