This was the story of a book. Or, to be more accurate, 'The Book'.

It was perhaps the most remarkable, certainly the most successful book ever to come from the Megadodo Publishing Company of Ursa-Minor Beta. It was more popular than "How Clean is your Hypercube", more informative than "Where Are They Now: God", and more popularly referenced than "100 more things to do in a wormhole". In many of the more theocratic societies across the southern belt of the universe, it had even come to surpass the "Encyclopaedia Galactica" as the standard repository of knowledge, which was widely disputed as a dumb move, as the disclaimer on the back clearly stated that almost all advice contained within The Book was at best inaccurate and at worst allegorical.

However, it did score over the older, more pedestrian "Encyclopaedia Galactica" on two levels; first, it was substantially cheaper, and second, it had the words "You are Loved" written in arcing, authoritative script on the front cover.

This book ('The Book') was the most well used, most well reputed book in the history of published words, with a version or translation of one edition or another on even the most primitive, under-evolved of planets in every galaxy.

This book was "The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment".

The offices of the Book were destroyed when a freak virtual wormhole was created inside the office of the head of indexing, one Mr Zarniwoop. None of the reporters or creators were ever heard from again, and as such, the book could not continue. Megadodo publishing went bankrupt within the month. Some said it was a sad end for a book that had helped more people through more regions of time and space than anything else in the history of the universe. Others disagreed. Wherever the writers and creators had gone to, it was probably better than the slick, corporate douche-bag atmosphere of Ursa-Minor Beta. Either way, that was how The Book ended.

However, should anyone wish to tell the story of The Book, they must first tell the story of a man. This man (human, Homo Sapiens of the planet 'Earth') had no more understanding of his destiny than the most poorly constructed apple pie did of its cultural saturation in English speaking nations, nor the symbolism attached to it through its appearance in various media.

His name is Dean Winchester. He is somewhere between thirty two and thirty five, though he has honestly lost count himself, and he is unemployed. He has not been gainfully employed since the destruction of his home planet and, really, he's ok with that. To top it all off, he often comes home from a hard day's hunting and gathering in the mauvish forests or fishing in the deep purple sea to find that his boyfriend, one Castiel Angeles, has not only left him to get wasted with the tribes of ex-Book reporters who happened to get sucked into the vortex that opened up when the new planet was created, but that he has taken the front door keys with him.

On occasions such as these, Dean will often find his way to one of the six bars you can find on any street, and get a beer for himself and his good friend Balthazar (if said friend isn't too busy hooking up with some girl who used to be an accountant), or sometimes even with Gabriel or Sam.

When you're sleeping with the creator of the planet "Fuck You Assbutt", who is worshipped as a liberator of the oppressed creative of Megadodo publishing, the beers are free, no one tries to blow you up or send you through time, and on the whole, life can't not be pretty sweet.

And when Chuck rocked up with the starship Impala, thanks to the soul drive and his belief that he'd find somewhere that made a decent Gargleblaster (a cocktail, the recipe for which was stored in the book and has since been lost to the mists of time), he had Bobby the shipboard AI run the numbers on their quality of life, just to make sure that nothing would get to the weary group.

And Bobby did run the numbers.

And Dean saw that it was good.