The day Dean learned to drive, he bonded. The impala's growl climbed into his bones and melded with them. Sam hadn't hit his growth spurt yet and was not tall enough to reach the pedals, but he would learn a few years later. Dean wasn't much taller, and he certainly wasn't legal to drive. It didn't matter. His father was the sort who taught a person the skills they needed to know, and didn't pay much attention to the law when it didn't know any better.
But even after he'd learned, his dad still usually drove, and no amount of begging on Dean's part would make him turn over the wheel when he didn't want to.
That was, until the day Dean out-drove the cops of Hungerford. There had been spooks, there had been the death of a girl, there had been the need for a fast getaway. Dad dove into the passenger side, Dean already in the driver's seat and Sam in the back asking their father what had happened.
"Seatbelts," was all he said.
Dean hadn't even let his father catch his breath before he turned the key and jammed his foot down on the gas. Their tires had scorched black and rubbery over the asphalt and the cops screeched right out after them. His father had been strangely quiet, which was just as well, because Dean needed all of his attention for calculating with one glance the exact speed he could take that corner at, and then the next, and the next, until they were on open road, heading for the city limits. The Impala had roared its approval under him, and he'd shot them straight out of that town, sirens fading behind them, caught in the twists of their own streets.
Three hours later, when they were climbing out of the car at a camp site, well away from Hungerford, His dad had clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, a proud look in his tired eyes, "Nice driving, son."
And after that, whenever Dean climbed in the driver's seat, dad handed over the keys without a word.